Another instalment in the increasingly chaotic short story serial.
Cindy: I could have been a herbalist. I wanted to be – I even got as far as finding a course but like everything else Chas put the kibosh on it. He said herbalism was airy-fairy and unscientific. ‘Besides, it’s dirty. Picking plants with your bare hands, bringing all that muck into the house!’ Chas hates anything to do with outdoors. I’ve still studied though and I know lots of plants now, all the common British ones and their uses. Comfrey for bruising and ligaments, echinacea for colds and flu, red clover for eczema and asthma, sage for drying up breast milk when you’re weaning…
People are surprised when I say he does all the cleaning; they have him down as the typical patriarch, not lifting a finger. The truth is, he doesn’t trust me to do it properly. I don’t clean under the sofa; I leave dirt behind the taps. Germs live in dirt. I say that scientifically we need a bit of dirt to boost our immune system. We all have to eat a peck of dirt, I say. He’s not buying it.
So his hedge fund’s gone; so what? I could never see the point of it; we’ve got insurance and savings and god knows what else so why would we need yet another contingency fund?
Herbalism isn’t dirty anyway. Mostly they use tinctures and they’re made with alcohol. I’d have loved to be a herbalist. It would be something to pass on to our children, like Mum taught me.
The smell of bleach is starting to get to me. He must go through a couple of bottles a week.
I’ve been spending more time downstairs this week, in preparation. My whole life is under those floorboards and one day soon I’ll be taking it with me, lock stock and barrel. I’ll be gone and there’ll be nothing he can do about it.
A short one today as it’s Friday and I‘ve run out of ideas.
Kirk out